


Domestic Life, Observed: Relax

by PlantsAreNeat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Relaxation, Sherlock is bored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlantsAreNeat/pseuds/PlantsAreNeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been finding myself wondering about John and Sherlock's time living as flatmates. What was it like for them, between cases? Here, Sherlock is bored and manic. (No surprise.) John suggests a relaxation exercise, but gets distracted. Not slash, just fluff. Somewhere between TBB and TGG for time frame. </p><p>Comments and Britpicking welcome!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Life, Observed: Relax

John climbed the stairs to 221B, a bag of groceries banging against his leg. The flat was curiously quiet, and he wondered if Sherlock had gone out. It'd be a blessing if he had, John thought. Maybe he's finally found something to do.

He stepped into the kitchen and stopped, listening intently. The flat was quiet, yes, but not empty. John silently placed the bag on the floor and scanned the sitting room for signs of danger. Not quite as he'd left it when he went to the market. Sherlock's violin had been uncased and was balanced carefully on the back of his chair, but the sheet music had fallen from the stand. A sofa cushion lay drunkenly on the floor between his and Sherlock's chairs with the telly remote beside it, batteries scattered from an impact. Sherlock's desk was in its usual disarray and his laptop was on, browser open to a page editor. "Analysis of Saliva Coagulation at 1.6 degrees C." John hoped this meant the gruesome head in the fridge would soon be leaving.

John stole noiselessly into the kitchen. Someone had cleared half the table by picking up the clutter of tea cups, Petrie dishes, beakers and toast crusts and dumping them in the sink. A sheet of paper in the space showed a lifelike pencil drawing of an ear, the model for which was arranged on a saucer to catch the best light from the window. John didn't think it was one of the ears from the head in the fridge, but couldn't be sure. The ear drawing had been modified into a letter B on the sheet, followed by carefully shaded and detailed letters O, R, I, N and G. Most of the rest of the space on the page had been filled in with Sherlock's precise writing, one word: "bored." The page had been pinned to the table with all seven of the knives from the butcher block, even the bread slicer which was blunt on the end. John wondered how Sherlock had managed that. He shook his head. This did not bode well. Sherlock had been on edge this week; living on nervous energy, tea, and nicotine patches, sleeping little if at all. The door opened at the end of the hall and Sherlock strode out, buttoning his cuff and running his fingers through damp curls. Purple shirt today, John noticed. He must really be buzzing.

"Ah, John," Sherlock said breezily, "shopping all done? Good, good. I need your gun. Or more precisely, I have your gun, and your bullets, but I need the clip. I presume you've hidden it somewhere."

"Why do you want the clip for my gun?" John said mildly.

"It won't shoot without it, obviously."

"And you want to shoot my gun, why, exactly?"

"Not so much the gun as the telly, John. It's incredibly stupid and should be put down." Sherlock paced around the kitchen, restlessly holding microscope slides up to the window to look through them then putting them down on the nearest flat surface.

"And there's why I hide the clip to my gun. You still haven't fixed the wall." John turned nonchalantly away from Sherlock, hoping he had not already given away that the clip was in his pocket. John knew better than to hide it in the flat where there was the slightest chance Sherlock could find it.

"Gah, the wall is boring."

Sherlock spun and crossed to the window overlooking Baker Street, muttering under his breath and making little shooting gestures with his hands at the TV. "A client!" he said.

"Sorry?" John replied.

"WHERE is one? I need a case! I'm bored, do you hear me? Bored, bored!"

"Yeah, so I gathered." John waved at the knives as he settled in his chair with the newspaper.

Sherlock had resumed pacing, picking up items at random in the sitting room, putting them down with a disgusted sigh. He looked at his laptop for a moment, then growled and snapped it emphatically shut. He threw himself down on the sofa, rolled over, then bounced back up to pick up his violin. He looked out the window avidly, seeming to will passersby on the street to bring a case to their door. He dropped back into his chair and fidgeted, plucking strings on the violin but not playing, his feet drumming a staccato rhythm on the floor. John watched him from over the top of the paper, getting more irked by the minute.

“Sherlock!” John threw the paper down on the floor. “Why don't you take a walk, or a bath, or do something! Relax! I'm getting tense just sitting in the same room with you."

"I need a case, John. Something to stop my mind racing. It's been days since the last one -" 

"A day, Sherlock, just one."

"And my mind is going round and round and shaking itself to pieces, and the only thing that makes it settle down is a really complex problem to sink my teeth into. You KNOW this. I've told you! A case, a case, I need a case - right - NOW!"

"Well, until one comes to our door, you're going to have to cope. Can't you, I don't know, go work out or something? Practice swordplay, or Baritsu?" Sherlock speared John with a look. "Not my gun, Sherlock, it's not an option."

"I'm not going to be able to occupy my mind with exercise," Sherlock said acidly, "the brain's what counts, the rest is just transport." His feet continued to tap a complex beat.

John snorted. "I used to think like that. Until I got shot. Pretty hard to use my brain when my life was leaking out and the fear and pain was all there was. When the memory of the pain didn't let me sleep or eat, do you think my brain was at its best? Nope. Transport? Not even close." John realized he was gripping his hands together so tightly they were hurting. He took a deep breath and looked up, into Sherlock's eyes. The moment stretched. "What?"

"You've never talked about being shot before."

"Well, I try not to think about it. When I got back, it was all I could think about. I couldn't turn my mind off it, like endless repeat behind my eyelids. My therapist had me try all sorts of techniques to shut it off - exercise, baths, hypnotism, meditation, eh, you know about the blogging... Huh." John frowned in thought.

Sherlock's fingers began to strike a rhythm on the arms of his chair, adding polyrhythmic tension to the lines his feet produced. John looked up again, taking in Sherlock's demeanor, then leaned back and stretched his arms above his head. "You ever try anything like that?" he asked casually.

"Like what?" Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his curls, then resumed his finger tapping.

"Relaxation techniques. For when you, you know..." He indicated the restless hands and feet.

"What? No." Sherlock dismissed the thought with an impatient wave.

"Why not?"

"Why not what?"

John gave Sherlock a level look, the corners of his mouth tightening. Sherlock bounced up out of his chair to pace by the window. "Sitting very still and repeating a mantra," he said sarcastically, "may be well and good for an average mind like yours. The effort of paying attention at all would require heroic measures. For a mind like mine, whose focus has been honed as sharp as a scalpel, it's achieved in an instant and boring a millisecond later." He ran his hands through his hair again. "The only thing that can absorb my mind fully is a puzzle, a conundrum, a mystery of human nature. A CASE!" He slammed both hands on the sides of the window. "Someone kill somebody! I'm going mad!" he shouted at the passersby below.

John watched his dramatics dispassionately. "So what you're saying is," he drawled, "you can't do it." Sherlock whirled to glare at him, quicksilver eyes blazing. "You just said it; you can't focus for more than… a millisecond, did you say?"

"Yes, I can."

"It's all right, loads of people have trouble quieting their minds." John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's a perfectly ordinary -"

"Let's get this over with." Sherlock stepped over the arm of his chair and dropped sulkily into the seat, ignoring John's raised eyebrows. "You are obviously angling to have me try one of your 'relaxation techniques,'" he sneered, "so just get on with it. What's my mantra, 'Vatican cameos?' No, that will make us tense. 'The silence of the mountain enfolds me?' No? 'I'm a little teapot?'"

"No!" John took a breath and blew it out, swallowing his irritation. "No mantras, Sherlock. Right, okay. Sit comfortably and close your eyes. Take a breath."

Sherlock heaved a huge sigh. "Just what am I supposed to be doing, John? This is going to make me less bored, is it?"

"Just!" John got hold of himself. "Just," he continued more calmly, "compose yourself. Um, do whatever it is you do when you go to your mind palace, only wait at the door, don't go in." It was Sherlock's turn to raise a sarcastic eyebrow. John plowed on. "Now, wait there a moment. Be still. The version of this that worked best for me was to focus on physical sensations." He leaned forward and spoke more slowly, more softly. "Pay attention to your body resting on the chair. To your feet resting on the floor. What does that feel like? As you breathe, feel your rib cage expand and relax. What does that feel like? Pay attention to those sensations."

He leaned back as Sherlock's face went still, his brow furrowed, and his breathing became more measured. In the diffuse afternoon light coming through the curtains, John could see the pulse beating fast at Sherlock's throat. He realized he had been holding his breath, and let it out slowly. The room grew quiet. John looked at his watch and nodded.

"I've done it, what's next?"

"One minute, fifteen seconds. That's a pint for me."

"What?" Sherlock eyed John suspiciously.

"That's how long you took. I bet myself you wouldn't last a minute thirty."

Sherlock made a disgruntled sound. "I did what you asked, but after a minute it was just the same thing repeating itself. If it doesn't change, why should I bother paying attention?"

John looked at Sherlock thoughtfully, remembering the quiet a moment ago. "Fine, we'll try again. Compose yourself, and give me your hand."

"My hand, why?"

"Compose yourself and find out. Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson is out, no one will see us holding hands."

Sherlock ignored the comment and complied matter-of-factly, wiggling a little into the chair cushion and leaning his head against the back, his hand held out on the chair's arm. John pulled his chair closer. "Just like last time, then, tune into your body in the chair, your breath in your chest, your feet on the floor. They're tapping, did you know? Never mind, it's fine. Just settle and breathe." John fell silent as Sherlock quieted himself.

After a minute by his watch, John took Sherlock's hand, merely holding it in both of his. The room stilled, muted sounds of the street below filtering in with the dusty sunlight. John looked at the hand he held. The fingers were long and thin, the bones and musculature clearly visible beneath the skin. The nails were neatly clipped short, and clean underneath. John had seen this hand bruised and scraped from scrambling over rooftops, dusted with powder from exam gloves at crime scenes, and stained with chemicals in the lab. Not today. He turned the hand over and laid it across his palm, contemplating it for itself rather than as a part of his friend. A strong hand, yes, but pale, smooth and soft. A scholar's hand, or a musician's - no rough callouses from manual labor or weather. Except at the fingertips: callouses there, from violin strings. He brushed one with his blunt finger, then a second, and found his gaze arrested by the contrast of his weathered hand against the elegant one he held.

His own hand was like him: solid and well-muscled, no nonsense, nails clean and short, a bit of hangnail on the thumb. He scrutinized his hand like he had never seen it before, turning it over, back and front. White nicks and lines of scars marred his skin, he hadn't noticed them much before. His hand trembled sometimes; not today. Over, back and front. As he looked, the light seemed to change - grow brighter, harsher, a merciless noontime sun. He remembered this hand in that light, working feverishly amidst noise and chaos, sunk in blood and worse as it tried to staunch the flow from ragged broken shapes that were men he had known. Over, back and front - dust in his nose, cacophony in his ears, hand bloody but still steady, aiming and firing. Over, back and front – his hand slipping, pressing weakly on a makeshift bandage on his own shoulder; no leverage, his blood soaking through in a spreading flower of red. Over...

"You stopped. Why did you stop? Are we done? Did it work?" John blinked and shook his head, breathing raggedly. He met Sherlock's piercing gaze briefly, looked away.

"Yeah... um, yeah. I got distracted. Sorry."

The eyes swept him, noting details, intent on his face. After a moment, Sherlock resettled in his chair and offered his hand. Again they sat, the silence descended. Golden afternoon light suffused the room as the sun sank to dusk. John cradled Sherlock's hand in his own; concentrating on stroking the fingers, stretching the thumb, scoring the palm lightly with his nails. Providing changeable physical sensation for a restless mind to focus on. The feet had stopped tapping, John realized; he wasn't sure when. Had he really been at this for most of an hour? He sat back, feeling light and content. Holding his friend's lean hand loosely in his own, he observed. Breathing regular but shallow, brow smooth, pulse at the throat slow, steady. Asleep? Yes. Amazing.

John stood, returning Sherlock's hand to the crook of his other arm. He gazed down at the still, relaxed form with the satisfied air of a man who has finished a difficult job and done good work. He went to look for a blanket.

A glint of silver eyes watched him go.


End file.
